


Rust

by wreckofherheart



Category: Mad Max Fury road, Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: You are no threat. You are a saviour, an angel; your wings scorched from the sun.
  The favourite falls into your arms, digging her nails into your flesh. She clings to you as if you were her oxygen, her last reason to survive,      and she’s all yours.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set before Mad Max: Fury Road. More of a character analysis than anything. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Be warned: (sexual) abuse is implied.

Some of your memories are fake. 

Dreams captured in iron, sealed with gold. 

(Your mother blossoms your mind, a flower, trapped in the heat of the earth––petals eaten away by fire.) 

The faces in your dreams are too pretty.

You wake up most nights, silent as the dead, and paralysed in fear.

Orders are simple. You collect, you deliver; you protect wombs. 

Your mother groomed you into brilliance, and now your Satanic master sucks you dry. Your humanity is broken, piece by piece. When he touches you, his fingers leave a stain. At times, he likes you. He prefers you, but he always loses interest. You’re not a favourite; just disposable waste. A toy soldier, ready to be tossed into the flames.

The first time you lay eyes on them––his Goddesses––you detest their presence. 

You’re not sure why. This world you’re chained to has destroyed everything you loved, and these Goddesses have only tied the strings. They are what keep him happy, satisfied; what allow the beast to grin and breathe. 

You _hate_ them, because he _loves_ them. 

Then _she_ tries to kill her own baby––his next heir––and her agony shakes you. 

Blood pools her tender palms. She cries quietly, alone and petrified, and when you try to take the dagger away, she _screams_ at you. 

_Look at what he has made! Look at his precious treasure!_

_Look at me!_

You instinctively rest a hand on the swell of her belly. And then you do as she commands: you look at her, how _splendid_ she is, and you’re silenced in awe. Not even Goddesses are this divine. Yet your heart shatters into pieces, scattered across the ash at your feet. Her eyes are wide with tragic beauty, and you’re overwhelmed by her fragility. 

You look at _his_ favourite, and swear you’ll be her armour. 

In that instant, you’re owned by another. She has you, and love throttles you by the throat. Choking you, suffocating you; and you realise, this is what it must feel like. To be human. To be _alive_. To be a creature with a heart. 

She holds your gaze, a flawless thing. 

Clenches her jaw, her face writhing in terror, before she cries. 

Tears scar her soft cheeks. Your breath is stolen, and you _must_ embrace her. The last person you ever held was your mother, seconds before she died–– _and that was so long ago now_. 

When your hands touch this splendid creature, she gasps, flinches; looks at you again, eyes drowning in a river of horror, and there’s a moment.

A gentle, soft moment.

You are no threat. You are a saviour, an angel; your wings scorched from the sun. 

The favourite falls into your arms, digging her nails into your flesh. She clings to you as if you were her oxygen, her last reason to survive, 

    and she’s all yours.

** x **

When she gives birth to a girl, you imagine a world in which the baby thrives. 

Can live too.

The baby is taken at midnight, screams crushing the walls. 

A mother’s loss haunting you forever.

** x **

The Wives give you names.

_Warrior Woman._

_The Praetorian._

_The Imperator._

_Orphan._

_Mother._

** x **

Now, you’re used to the crime. His insanity. How he treats them, and how he treats his favourite. When you were just a youth, you’d always look away––as much as he’d demand you watch. He wants you to _see_ what he can do. How he can tear his prizes apart, make them do things they can’t possibly recover from. 

You are a statue, observing him take her. Your duty is simple: protect the Wives, but the moment he is present, your purpose becomes meaningless. You say nothing, do nothing, and your eyes reveal _nothing_. He is an ugly monster, but you are immune to his destructive nature. You are immune to her pleas for mercy, to her exhausted silence.

When she looks at you, fighting him off her; her eyes so glorious, and terrified, and _begging_ ––you nearly rip his head from his neck.

** x **

‘How old are you?’

She watches you with half shut eyes, and the sunlight caresses her bruised skin. You try to avoid her gaze. If you _dare_ lay a hand on his treasure, he will shred you apart.

But she wants you to look at her, and she’s a determined princess. Grabs your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. Your lips part, and you're amazed. You could gasp at her wonder. Your heart is squeezed, and you allow a glimpse of her mouth. Only a glimpse.

You have no age.

No name.

No gender.

You simply don’t have an identity. 

When you tell her this, she slumps her shoulders in disappointment. Releases you.

‘Angharad.’

‘What did you say?’

‘My name. Please: only ever use the name my mother gave me.’

You blink, young and innocent. Smile. ‘Furiosa.’

‘No.’ She softens her expression––the favourite _pities_ you––and she reaches over to touch your face. ‘Your mother did not gift you with a name so _awful_.’

‘I don’t know what my mother would have named me.’

‘You cannot remember her?’

‘I choose to forget.’

‘Why?’

You look away. Her face is too soft, too much for you to handle. 

‘It hurts less to forget.’

** x **

The War Rig carries your soul, and Satan’s heavenly jewels. 

It becomes your own flesh and blood. 

The thing you drive day and night. Guarding what belongs to him. You bring oil, you bring food, you bring women; you deliver what he wants. Sometimes, the journey is so long and tiresome, you nearly fall asleep at the wheel. The deserts are so dry, you always return to the Citadel dehydrated. 

Ready to wither. 

You remove your prosthetic, your own creation, and your arm singes. You still haven’t overcome the loss of your limb, and the grief has you bent over. Memories flash in your mind, of faces, of teeth, of screams and horrible sounds. So horrible, you want to hide away into the darkest corners and disappear for an eternity. 

She comes to you that night. 

As soon as she steps through the door, all dignity is stolen from you. 

‘Tell me about the Green Place. Tell me about the Many Mothers. Tell me about where you came from, Furiosa.’

_Tell me, tell me, tell me._

_Let me fantasise too._

She sits beside you, caressing your wound, and you tell her all you can.

** x **

‘Take me there––one day. I beg of you. Take me to the Green Place.’

‘How?’

‘Let me _run_.’

** x **

Word spreads of her pregnancy. 

A boy, they chant. _A boy, a boy, a boy_.

One more war lord.

Angharad cries herself to sleep, and you run your fingers through her hair. You don’t dare speak, don’t dare whisper, so very afraid a wail might rip from your throat.

** x **

You wash the oil from your body.

Cleanse yourself from the battle, the water splashed across your hot flesh. Your breasts ache, and your thighs tremble; you’re hurt, and you need to rest, but you’re a baby, born into a war, and there is no peace for a knight. 

She’s already showing signs of her pregnancy. After five times, her body is just so accustomed to the growth. This is something he dislikes. He blames her for expressing such symptoms, and slaps her. He thrashes her across the room, and, as always, you’re forced to watch. Even if your fists clench, your jaw so tense it might _snap_. 

The beast loses interest in his favourite, and demands she be in seclusion until the child is out. 

You are her guard. 

She bleeds from his fists, and sobs from his claws. Shudders in the night from his face. 

The night is scorching, and she’s restless. The infant is giving her pain. A tiny thing, but vicious, like its father. She moans, and complains occasionally, but she tries so hard to be stoic. She won’t give in, she won’t give in to his satisfactions. He wants her to suffer, wants her to know she’s done him wrong, but Angharad is just as stubborn as you are.

You lose patience. 

Rinse a flannel with cold water, and press it across her forehead.

She sighs, relieved. You care for her more than anybody ever has. 

‘Tell me about the Green Place again.’

You lie down beside her, committing to a sin he will surely punish you for, and repeat the story once more. 

** x **

She kisses you at the back of the War Rig. When the sun has set, and watching eyes have closed. 

She kisses you, and her lips are fierce and demanding;

    your dented armour is taken apart, your body and soul and madness loved. And for just a while, you set her free.

** x **

Eventually, she’s courageous enough to ask you to do the unthinkable. 

_Take me away. Take me and the others._

_To the Green Place._

_A world where we can smile._

( _Run away with me._ )

You’re shocked (and, for a moment, appalled) at your lack of hesitation. You glance at her, then at his lovely treasures, and they’re simply women. Girls. Homeless orphans, lost in hope. You are all simply women, searching for heaven.

When you oblige, she kisses you for the final time. 

 

 

_I shall love you ‘till I die, Furiosa_.

 


End file.
